


The Most Fearsome Things are What we Find in Ourselves

by natcat5



Series: Dark Month 2015 [12]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Character Study, Faerie AU, Gen, Introspection, mirror self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Your world is wrong,</i> says the you that is not you, <i>You are going to lose.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Fearsome Things are What we Find in Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this is very loosely a faerie au. but mirrorselves are a fae thing, right? like changelings? or am I completely off-base here lmao oh well

You are on the right side of the mirror.

The glass is against the wall on the far side of your room. In its reflection you can see most of your belongings. Your bed, neatly made. Your desk, covered in books. The small bookshelf by your bedside. Some clothes, strewn about; you need to tidy up. Some snack packaging, a wrapper from your favourite burger place. A steaming cup of coffee. Your phone on top of your blankets, vibrating with some newly received message.

And yourself. You can see yourself in the mirror. Black hair, dark eyes. Your face is a little round, a little soft. Hide says you have eyes like a kicked puppy; you don’t see it. You think your eyes are fine, though they’re a bit shadowed at the moment. You’re working on an essay. The nights spent at the library researching are long, but you’re enjoying it. You love your major, and you love reading.

This is you. This is yourself. You are on the right side of the mirror.

 _He_ is not.

You only see him sometimes. Certain nights- you’ve tracked it. New Moon, Full Moon, and Wanings. That’s when he appears.

He is not you. And his world is wrong.

He looks like you, but not. His hair is white, shockingly so. One of his eyes is like yours, but the other is…disfigured. Blackened, with red at the center. His face is more angular, sharp, in a way that makes his eyes more prominent. They’re shadowed, like yours, but you doubt he’s sleepless because he’s working on an essay. There’s a caginess in his gaze, and something dark and violent that frightens you.

Behind him, you can see his room. It terrifies you, because it is nearly the same as yours. The same bed, at least. And books, everywhere. But they are not stacked neatly on the desk. There is no desk. There is no bookshelf and no bedside table. There is a bed, and books on top of it. The rest of the room is an empty space, with books shoved against the corners. Some open, some closed. Stains, on the floor. Coffee by the window, you think. And closer to the bed…

You don’t know what a bloodstain would look like. Hide, avid chaser of horrific news, might. But you don’t know what a bloodstain looks like.

The one who is not like you, on the other side of the mirror, probably does. You hope that’s not what’s on the floor by his bed.

His room is like yours, but wrong. He is like you, but wrong.

He scares you.

 _You’re weak,_ he says, and you tense up, indignant, but too frightened to respond. He wears shortsleeves while you wear long sweaters. Thick, warm clothing to hide yourself in. His arms are bare and pale, lined with hard muscle. If you lift your hand, he mirrors you, and you see that his nails are stained black with dried blood.

 _What can you protect, with hands like those?_ He says, his hand pressed against yours, the pane of glass between you. You don’t pull your hand away, but you tremble.

He didn’t always speak to you. You think he was scarier then. He’d just watch you, from his side of the mirror. Sometimes he’d follow your movements, like a reflection is supposed to. Other times he would stand, and watch.

His eyes are scary. They are different from yours.

But you know that you watch as well. That you are an observatory person. That you are quiet, and absorb information by staying quiet, and watching.

You’re afraid to say that he’s like you. You are afraid of what this mirror image might mean for yourself.

 _This world is wrong,_ he says, and his voice sounds like yours, but firmer. There’s conviction in his tone, something you lack, in your desire to please everyone and anyone. _It has to change. And to bring about change, you have to change yourself first._

“I’m fine as I am,” you say, as boldly as you can manage. Talking to yourself in an empty room. Terrified of the ‘you’ on the other side of a plane of glass. But his world is wrong, and you won’t let him think that it’s better than yours. That he’s better than you.

 _They will tear you apart, all the softness off your bones._ He says, nails pressing against the glass. _If you have nothing harder inside, there will be nothing left. Peel away the soft shell, find the hard center. Crack the egg, let the beast out. Destroy the world that’s wrong, and live in the world that you won’t be ashamed of._

“I’m not going to destroy anything,” you say, voice cracking, “I could never.”

 _Your world is wrong,_ says the you that is not you, _You are going to lose._

\--

You are on the right side of the mirror.

The glass is against the wall on the far side of your room. In its reflection you can see most of your belongings. Your bed, messy. Sometimes you remember to fold and make it. Most days you can’t be bothered. It’s covered in books, open and closed. Books on martial arts, books on military strategy, books on leadership. There are some clothes strewn about. You try to keep them off your bed and on the floor; usually they are stained with blood. Already, there’s a discoloured spot on the ground, close to your bedpost. There’s a coffee stain closer to the door; you need to stick to drinking it downstairs. Your newest burn phone is still in its packaging- you’ll set it up later.

And yourself. You can see yourself in the mirror. Stark white hair, dark eyes. There is little soft about you. You have worked hard to make it so. Tsukiyama says you have eyes like an adder, curled under a rock. Unassuming at one moment, deadly the next; you don’t see it. You think your eyes are fine. They’re secretive when they need to be, and honest when they can be. Though they are a bit shadowed at the moment. You’ve been training a lot. Downstairs, in the specially built room. And here in your room, where you don’t have any furniture other than the bed and the mirror, freeing space for you to practice the moves dictated in the books you read. You can feel yourself getting stronger, becoming more able to protect, defend, fight. It’s important that you stay strong, and get stronger.

This is you. This is yourself. You are on the right side of the mirror.

 _He_ is not.

You do not see him often. He only appears on certain nights. New Moon, Full Moon, and Waxings.

He is not you. And his world is wrong.

He looks like you, but not. His hair is black, cut conservatively. His eyes are like yours, but without the marring feature of a kakugan. His face is round and soft, like yours was when you were young. But he is the same age as you, and his eyes are still wide and trusting. They are shadowed, like yours, but you doubt he’s sleepless because he’s training to fight. There’s a nervousness in his gaze, a fear and lack of confidence and strength that upsets you. Seeing a version of you this weak stirs unpleasant memories.

Behind him, you can see his room. Strange in how similar it is to yours. The bed is identical. And books, of course. But stacked neatly on a desk, and in a bookshelf. He has furniture in his room. He probably sees no reason to use the space for anything else. There are food wrappers, which make something inside you ache, nostalgic. And a steaming cup of coffee.

His room is like yours, but wrong. He is like you, but wrong.

He upsets you.

Him this soft, weak version of yourself. The you that you were, that you could have been, if the world hadn’t torn you apart and reshaped you into something else.

 _Why?_ He asks, and you tense up, obstinate under his searching gaze. Him, all wrapped up in his layers of warm clothes. More things to protect himself from the world. Unlike you, who has become resigned to take what the world can throw at you, as you are.

 _Why are you like this?_ He asks, his hand pressed against yours, the pane of glass between you. _It shouldn’t be this way. You shouldn’t have to hurt this much. Your hands shouldn’t be stained._

You don’t pull your hand away from the glass, but crack one of the knuckles on the hand hanging at your side. He didn’t always speak to you. You think he was more annoying then. He’d just watch you, silently casting judgment from his side of the mirror. Sometimes he’d follow your movements, the way a reflection is supposed to. Other times he would stand, and watch.

His eyes are passive and frightened. They are different from yours.

But like him, you also watch. It’s important that you observe, and look, and keep track of everything. Your friends, and your enemies. That you watch their movements and learn to copy them, that you’re never caught off guard because you’ve blinded yourself to the truths of the world.

He does not watch like you do. Because no matter what he sees, he will not act. That is the true wrongness of the you on the other side of the mirror, and you are afraid of what this reflection might mean for yourself.

 _This world can be cruel, but it’s not so terrible,_ he says, and he sounds like he’s trying to sound firm, but there’s a wavering in his tone. He lacks conviction. _You don’t have to fight everything. It’s okay to just take things on, to weather through the bad times. You don’t have to fight. You don’t have to hurt others._

“Sometimes, you do,” you say flatly. Talking to yourself in an empty room. Unnerved by the ‘you’ on the other side of a plane of glass. But his world is wrong, and you won’t let him think that it’s better than yours. That he’s better than you.

 _It doesn’t matter how much hurt you have to take on._ He says, soft skin pressed gently to the glass. _It’s better to be hurt than to hurt others, every time. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want to drive people away. Why would you willingly hurt anyone else? People won’t stay with you. You’ll end up alone._

“I’m going to protect everyone I care about,” you say, voice as steady as you can get it, “I won’t be alone again.”

 _Your world is wrong,_ says the you that is not you, _You are going to lose._

 


End file.
